Johnny
by Falling to Fly
Summary: One step too far is all it takes to bring everything crashing down.


**So I found this on my laptop the other day, used it in a writing game, and finally decided that hey, if I wasn't going to get off my lazy butt and write something I new I should at the very least post something old that few people have read. Is it good? Probably not. But it's kind of like a James-centric, more twisted version of Little Boy Lost, and that's always a party. Also, the page breaks signal a scene change. Hopefully it won't be too confusing because it switches throughout past and present, which is something new. That is all. ~enjoy**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

Once upon a time, James was just another guy.

Once upon a time, he was a boy without a real care in the world. His problems, the few that he had, were the stereotypical ones: a bad grade here and there, disagreements with his friends, and maybe, every once in a while, trouble with a girlfriend- nothing important. Things were good for him, if not great.

Once upon a time, he'd had everything he could have every wanted. Loving parents, friends that would die for him, and his dream job. On top of that, the band was getting ready to go on another tour, which meant travel and performing, two of his favorite things in the entire world.

Once upon a time, James didn't have to look over his shoulder every time he heard footsteps behind him.

Once upon a time, James didn't wake up in a cold sweat every night, a scream dying on his lips as he realized that he was at home, his real home.

Yes, once upon a time James felt happy, alive, and most importantly, safe.

But once upon a time was a long time ago.

* * *

The day they met was the worst day of James' life.

He can't really call it a meeting; if that's would it had been, there would have been an introduction, maybe a shaking of hands and some idle conversation. All James had gotten out of him was, "Hello there, son," before the man had been on him, plunging a needle into his neck and dragging him off to an old, rusted pickup truck before he'd even known what was happening. His vision had darkened, and by the time he'd been dropped onto the torn, worn leather seats, his grip on reality was just about gone. Just as he realized that he was being abducted, the world around him went completely black.

* * *

Time seemed to stop when he least wanted it to nowadays. When the press caught him on the way home from therapy, when the police called because they needed him to come back and go over some things with them, when he happened to catch one of his friends or family staring at him with a mixed look of pity, worry, and a little bit of fear in their eyes. Time was especially slow when he awoke from one of his nightmares, when the events of his ordeal were still fresh on his mind.  
There never seemed to be an end in sight during those moments. Even after they had passed, he still felt that heavy, smothering weight on his chest, that made it hard to breathe and made his head spin. James' doctors said that this was perfectly normal, and in time his scars would heal, physical and emotional alike. It was hard to believe though, especially since every time he closed his eyes all he saw was his face.

* * *

The cabin was old and decrepit, and barren except for a few wooden chairs and an old cot that James genuinely expected to collapse underneath him. The lock worked just fine, though, and on his first night there it had been made very clear that there was no way to get out without a key. He'd learned that the hard way when he'd tried to punch through the lone window, only to nearly break his hand against an inch of glass.

The man had introduced himself as Pop, with the instructions to address him as that or sir. The cabin, which James later come to realize was in the middle of the woods, was his home, and according the Pop, it was James' home as well. James was his son, he claimed, and he was going to bring him up the RIGHT way.

At first James had tried to argue. He wasn't his son, he would argue in a trembling voice, and Pop wasn't his father. He should have known better. James _was_ his son now, and the first thing he'd have to teach him was respect. The blows had rained down, with James crying out in pain and trying to reason with the man all the while, until finally he was greeted with darkness again, and this time, he welcomed it.

* * *

There used to be a time when they would actually smile around him.

Now, everything was different. The closest thing he's gotten to one was a tiny, half-hearted grin from Mrs. Knight when their new dog ran to him and whined and pleaded for him to play with her. Even Katie, who used to tease him relentlessly and trip him whenever he walked past, grew quiet around him, and somehow that hurt more than anything else that had happened since he'd come back.

His friends, if possible, were even harder to be around than the Knights. At least if he got tired of their mother henning he could retreat to his room and get a few hours of solitude before someone came to check on him. With his friends, there was nowhere to run, and they all reacted differently around him. One would give him this pitying look that drove him insane, and either wouldn't speak to him at all or would try to pry and get him to tell them how he was doing. Another would try to act like things were perfectly fine, but his smile never touched his eyes, and he caught him staring at him when he thought he wasn't looking more than once. The other would try to hold it together, for his sake, but couldn't be around him for more than five minutes before he ran out of the room crying.

He would have given anything for things to go back to the way they'd been before, but he had nothing to give, at least nothing they could want.

Nothing.

* * *

Time passed, although how much was something James had lost track of. Too often he was asleep or unconscious, and the woods were only marginally lighter during the day than they were at night. Pop seemed to magically appear every time he opened his eyes, although James knew he must have left for at least a little while, because there was always fresh bread and a glass of water for him when he needed it.

When he was awake and had been fed, Pop would teach him his "lessons." The first one, respect, was learned quickly. Most of the time if he cooperated and did what he was told, James wouldn't be punished. Some of the lessons were simple enough: listen when being spoken to, always do what you're told the first time, simple morals like that. The worst one had been when Pop had stopped feeding him and giving him water to teach him to appreciate what he had. He wasn't sure how long it went on, but by the time the lesson finally ended he'd been so weak that Pop had had to feed him himself.

James made sure to do everything Pop told him perfectly, because the times that he messed up were always followed by punishments. More often than not it was a beating; if he survived, he was going to have some major scars, if not from Pop's fists and boots then from the times he'd been thrown onto the hard, metal railings of the cot or the time he'd crashed into one of the wooden chairs, breaking it and landing among the sharp, splintered pieces.

Pain quickly become a part of him. It never hurt any less, but after what he assumed was a few days he stopped being surprised by it when he woke up. Sometimes it hurt more, sometimes it hurt less; it really just depended on what he'd done wrong, and how good of a mood Pop was in. As each day wore on, James found himself growing more and more accustomed to his new environment, and as he adjusted he found himself giving up on the thought of ever being rescued.

* * *

He went to both group and one-on-one therapy sessions at least once a week, sometimes more if he was particularly down. He hated the times when it was just him and his shrink; she was too nice, too stereotypical, and he swore that the next time she asked him how he was feeling he would walk out and never come back.

The group sessions weren't that bad, though. There were all sorts of other people, each with their own story. There was Sharon, who had been held at gunpoint at a gas station across town. Then there was Steve and his wife Carrie, who were held hostage in their own home when one of their neighbors had broken in. Kelly was the victim of a bold stalker, and Josh was a guy in his early twenties who had been abducted by two guys for ransom. James liked him the best, because he reminded him of Kendall, and whenever he found himself struggling he just had to look up into Josh's encouraging face and sharing become much easier.

During his time in the group, James quickly learned how to tell when someone was struggling and when they had were dealing with it. Josh, Steve, and Kelly all seemed like they were almost ready to move on with their lives, while Carrie and Sharon looked like they were struggling to hold themselves together. He was pretty sure he fell in with the latter group, and while the others helped him deal with things a lot better than anyone else, the nightmares still hadn't gone away. And the fear…

The fear was still paralyzing.

* * *

Between lessons or when he was cleaning him up after a beating, Pop liked to tell him stories. He would tell James about his own childhood, and remind him that what he was doing was out of love. James wanted to yell at him and scream that this was not out of love, that he was some kind of psycho and he had better let him go before someone caught him. But he'd learned the hard way what came with defiance, and so he kept his mouth pressed into a firm line and let the crazed man talk.

There were tales of going hunting and fishing, intricate stories of the "adventures" Pop had when he was younger. James learned more than he really wanted to: everything there was to know about his family, the friends he used to have, and sometimes, when James had been really "bad" and Pop was dressing his wounds, he would tell him about all of his other sons.

There had been many of them over the years, he said, and all of them had needed to be taught a serious lesson. Some of them had been older than James, some of them younger. There'd been a few good ones, but most of them had been bad, and Pop had been forced to punish them more than he'd wanted to. But they were gone now, he'd say, and now James was his son, and he was the best one he'd ever had. He never said what he'd done with his sons when it had become clear that there was no way to teach them, and James never asked.

He was pretty sure that he didn't want to know, anyway.

* * *

He wasn't sure what he thought of his ability to tell how well people were coping. Sure, maybe it was a little interesting to see what the random strangers were feeling on those rare occasions when he was allowed to leave the house, but it soon grew old, and when he was around the people he was close to it only reminded him of what he had gone through.

Most of his friends around the Palm Woods seemed to be getting along pretty well. They didn't come over to visit him everyday like they had at first, and when he did see them they weren't so pale and jumpy, aside from the tiny amount of worry they showed when one his old injuries gave him trouble. Kendall, Carlos, and Logan, though, were a whole other story. Because while his friends seemed to have started to move on, his family seemed to have made no progress at all. He could see it in their eyes every time they looked at him, and even more so when they looked away.

His family was suffering, and he didn't know how to fix it.

* * *

James had been behaving perfectly, and it had been a long time since he'd been punished. Pop seemed quite pleased with the "progress" they'd been making, and often congratulated him. Someday, he said, if James was good long enough, he might even get a reward. "You have to work hard to earn what you think you deserve," he would tell James, smiling down at him with those crazed eyes of his.

And one day, finally, he earned it. He couldn't be sure of how long it had been; it had felt like months, but the way time seemed to go in this cabin, it could have been mere days or several years for all he knew. But one morning when he awoke, after he had been given his usual bread and water, Pop told him he had finally earned his reward. All he had to do was ask, Pop said, and it would be his.

And that was when James made his first mistake.

He should have know better, after all the time he'd spent in the cabin with Pop, all the beatings he'd endured and all the precautions he'd taken to make sure that James didn't escape. But when the opportunity arose, everything that had happened seemed to fade away, and he couldn't help himself when he told Pop that he wanted to leave.

The second those words had left his lips he knew he'd asked for the wrong thing. Pop's eyes darkened and narrowed, and everything stilled as the two of them stood there, staring at each other. James briefly thought about trying to fix his mistake, lie to Pop and tell him he was only kidding and that he wanted to stay. But before he could really comprehend what Pop was doing, he was being pulled towards the door and out of the cabin.

He froze as he realized what had just happened, and suddenly the hope that had remained dormant for so long was back, burning brighter than ever. There was nothing around but trees and what looked like it might have been a worn path, but the fresh air smelled amazing after being trapped in the musty cabin for so long.

And then he noticed the shed off the side.

It was made of concrete, but the door had one single little window, just like the cabin. Unlike the cabin's window, though, this one was covered in what he almost thought was frost. He narrowed his eyes, trying to get a better look, and it was only then that he realized that Pop was carrying him that way. "What are you -" That was all he managed to get out before the door was being opened and he was being pushed inside.

The door slammed after him, and he quickly turned around, trying to run into the window. As soon as he took his first step, though, his feet slid out from under him and he went crashing down. The floor beneath him was incredibly cold, and if he hadn't known better he would have thought he had landed on a giant block of ice. He kept his eyes closed, trying to regain his breath. When he finally reopened them, he found himself looking at a bluish-white ceiling, with the same kind of walls and what he could only assume was the same kind of floor. And then he realized.  
He was in some kind of ice cellar.

* * *

It was times like these that he wished that Pop had just killed him when he had the chance. When he had pictured himself escaping, he'd imagined his friends finding him, hugging him and taking him home. Everything had been good in those dreams. Somehow his injuries were miraculously healed, and no one was sad and he didn't have to be afraid anymore. This was how he had imagined his return to be. It was nothing like what had really happened.

* * *

The cold seemed to hit him all at once. Suddenly his body, which was clad in only a t-shirt and jeans, was shivering violently, and he could see his breath coming out in quick, frantic puffs. He scrambled again for the window, this time being careful not to lose his balance. Wiping away some of the frost, he could just manage to see Pop as he entered the cabin again.

Without thinking, James threw himself at the door, screaming as he tried to break it down. "Come on!" Another hit, another failed attempt. "Pop!" Another failure. "Please! Let me out, I'm sorry!" Nothing. Absolutely, positively nothing.

When he finally stopped, the only thing he could think to do was slump down against the wall. Maybe if he just waited and held out for a little while, Pop would come back for him. Maybe the reward had just been another one of his lessons, and this was just his punishment for getting the wrong answer. Or maybe-

It was then that James finally took in his surroundings. It took him a moment or so for his brain to wrap itself around what he was seeing, and when he had finally processed it he had to press his hand over his mouth to keep himself from throwing up or screaming.

He had finally found out what Pop had done with the other boys.

* * *

The next time James went to the doctor, the final stitches were removed, and the doctor told him that although he still needed to rest and take it easy over the next few weeks, he would no longer have to come back to the hospital for any more follow ups.

The news lifted his spirits a little, but the look of pure joy that lit up his friends' faces was nothing compared to his own. He wasn't quite sure why something as small as that had given them so much happiness, but they chattered happily the entire way home, and later, when they thought he was asleep, he heard them talking on the phone with their parents, proudly telling them of the progress he was making and that his body was almost fully recovered. He could hear it in their voices, and he felt one of the pieces of himself that he had been missing fall back into place.

His friends was finally beginning to heal.

* * *

After the ice cellar and a warning to never ask him to leave again, Pop no longer stayed inside the cabin with James all the time. Sometimes he would go hunting, or maybe every once in while he would go into town to get fresh supplies. The solitude was something James hadn't experienced in a long time, but after spending the night in the ice cellar with all the cold, dead bodies of all of Pop's other sons, he found that he really couldn't take comfort in anything anymore.

When James next awoke, it took him a few moments to figure out what had pulled him from his slumber. Light was just barely filtering through the window, which, he noted with a dulled sense of despair, was covered with the first snow of the winter. Before he could even comprehend what that meant, he finally heard what had awoken him: a scream, just outside the cabin door. But not just anyone's scream.

It was Pop's scream.

He moved slowly to the window, feeling himself grow colder as he neared the door. What this another lesson? "James!" He was beyond trying to understand Pop's lessons at this point, so he chose to listen behind the safety of the door. "James! Son, I need your help!" He briefly thought of calling back, just out of pure curiosity, but he held his tongue. "Son, I need you to come out here! My leg, I-" The rest of whatever he was going to say was lost in a choked cry of pain.

James simply stood there, trying to locate Pop from his position in the window. "James… Be a good boy… Come on, son. Come out here and help your old man." His words were punctuated by ragged, agonized gasps. "There's a key… underneath the cot." James froze when he heard that. "Hurry, son…"

James scrambled for the cot, diving underneath it and looking for the key. His heart was beating wildly in his chest, and as his hands touched the small piece of metal he wasn't sure if he wanted to cry from the sudden relief or kick himself for never having thought to look there before. With Pop's cries of pain still echoing in the background, he put the key into the lock, holding his breath as he watched it turn…

And open.

A blast of cold air greeted him, chilling him to the bone as he took a step from the cabin on unsteady legs. This was the first time he'd ever left the cabin of his own free will, and he wasn't sure what to do next. "James!" The voice came from off to his side, and when he turned he saw Pop on the ground. It took him a few seconds to realize what had been causing the man so much pain, and when he finally saw it, it was all he could do not to throw up.

There was nothing pretty about Pop's leg. There was a bear trap clamped tightly around his ankle, and from the way it seemed to have torn the tendons and ligaments into a bloody, shredded mess, he was surprised it hadn't just taken the man's foot off altogether. It was a truly gruesome site, and James didn't fail to miss that every time Pop tried to move, his face dissolved into a look of sheer agony. "James… be a good boy, and come over here. I can't… I need you to pull this off."

James stood rooted to the spot, watching as Pop continued to writhe on the damp forest floor. "James!" There was an edge of desperation in his voice, and he was practically begging now. It was a pathetic sight, and Johnny almost thought he felt a slight twinge of pity for the man. He looks like a wounded animal, James thought darkly. "James, hurry! Please, James, just run over here and pull it off. I know you can do it!"

James didn't doubt that he could have gone over there and gotten the trap off. He might have lost a lot of weight and most of the strength he'd once possessed, but he could have done it if he wanted to. He looked at Pop for a few moments longer, taking in the scene before him as he made up his mind. And then he ran. James ran, faster than he would have ever thought himself capable of, and he went as if someone's life depended on it.

But he didn't run to Pop.

* * *

Eric Hoffer once said, "When people are free to do as they please, they usually imitate each other." That was just the way humans behaved. They could try all they wanted to to be different, to be unique and stay that way for the rest of their lives, and perhaps a few would succeed. But it just isn't in human nature. Humans were like dominoes; once one of them got the ball rolling, the rest were sure to follow.

James' friends and family was certainly no exception to this. First Carlos, then Logan and Kendall, and he'd known it would only be a matter of time before everyone else followed suit.

It was the first real family dinner they'd had since his return, and it was as though someone had flipped a switch. He couldn't remember the last time they had been able to sit around and smile the way they were now, but it felt good. For the first time in months, they were acting like a real family, and James found himself smiling genuinely for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

His family was finally beginning to recover. Now, it was his turn.

* * *

James ran.

It didn't matter that he'd been living off only bread and water for the last however long of his life. He didn't care that his body was weak from all the beatings, and that his legs were more likely to buckle underneath him than they were to carry him back home. He just had to get himself as far away from that God forsaken cabin as he could. Then, and only then, would he worry about where he needed to go next.

He wasn't sure how long he ran, or even if he was going in the right direction, but after what seemed like hours he broke into a clearing. Or was it a clearing? Perhaps it was more than that. He almost thought that he saw people in the distance, in blue jackets and with dogs, but everything was beginning to blur in front of him. As he slumped to the ground, he heard footsteps running towards him, and then a hand on his neck. He tensed at the sudden contact, but relaxed ever so slightly when the hand moved from his neck to his own hand and the owner, a woman, spoke.

"James? James, I need you to stay awake for me, alright? You're safe now. If you can hear me and understand what I'm saying, I need you to squeeze my hand." He allowed his hand to close around hers weakly. "Very good, James. My name is Monica Solton, I'm with the FBI. We're going to get you some help, okay James? I just need you to stay awake until the medics get here to take care of you. Can you do that for me, James?" Again he squeezed her hand, but she seemed to get the message. "Good, James, very good."

He felt new hands on him now, gently lifting his body before setting him back down, this time on a stretcher. He felt himself being wheeled to the ambulance, and once inside he heard the EMTs talking to each other, assessing him and putting an IV into his arm. "You're doing great, James. Once we get to the hospital and the doctors check you out, I promise you'll get to see your family, okay? They've been very worried about you."

James tried to nod, to make some show of how great that news was to him, but everything felt too heavy. His hand, which had been held firmly but gently in Agent Solton's hand up until now, fell limp, and even as the heart monitor began to scream, everything faded into darkness.

* * *

Seven months, one week, and three days. That was how long he'd been missing. That was how long Pop had kept in his own personal Hell. That was how long he managed not to die. No, he'd saved that moment for the day he'd finally escaped.

Apparently it was the internal injuries that almost did him in, not the ones he could see. Severe bruising to his liver and spleen, four broken ribs, one of which had punctured his left lung as he was running from the cabin. A minor concussion, two broken fingers, and a sprained wrist, as well as multiple bruises and lacerations all over his body. Not to mention the extreme malnutrition and dehydration. The list seemed to go on and on, and his friends' eyes had grown wide with horror as they listened.

The police had found the cabin, though, along with Pop and the other dead boys. No one could hurt him now. The doctors all assured him and his family that although his injuries were extensive, they were all perfectly treatable, and with luck he'd be up and running as though nothing had ever happened in just a few months.  
His physical scars would one day heal and, with luck, so would the mental ones.

* * *

The day of the trial was one of the best days of James's life.

Every part of nature seemed to agree. The air was cool and dry, the sun was shining, some birds were singing happily from where they sat perched above the courthouse, and everything felt good.

The jury had found Pop, whose real name turned out to be Michael Harmon, guilty of nine counts of murder and kidnapping. A life sentence, without parole, was issued, and as Pop was led from the courtroom, screaming for James to help him and tell him that it was all a mistake and the Pop was his father, the boy looked him in the eye and calmly informed him that he wasn't, nor would he ever be, his son.

And as James and his friends filed out of the courtroom and into the beautiful weather outside, he found himself smiling. It was hard to describe exactly what he was feeling, but whatever it was felt good. Today, there was no more pain, only relief, satisfaction, safety.

Closure.

* * *

**La la la la. We'll just pretend this was happy and good and that I'm going to go do something productive now.**

**Yeah, even I didn't believe that. I love you all! :)**


End file.
